I'll Never Be Young Again (40 page)

She gave me a flash of a smile and was gone. I heard her footsteps down the stairs, and then out in the street, and the slam of the taxi door. It was the same as when she had come, only the sounds were reversed. The taxi started with a grinding of gears and went away up the street, hooting, the sound becoming faint as it merged into the traffic of the Boulevard Montparnasse.

I stood still, as I had before, and I picked up the shaving-brush that was lying on the table.

10

I
f this had been a year ago I should have gone out and got drunk. I should have gone on drinking until there were no thoughts left in my head, until I was stupefied and senseless,> and then I would have returned to my room and lain face downwards on the bed to sleep for three days. Then when I woke up, hard and sober, I would have gone out and got drunk again. I did not do this now. I went back to the glass in the bedroom and finished shaving. I think I shaved with greater care. And I went on dressing. And I sat down and began to sort my things. And I was hungry, and I had lunch somewhere in Paris. I walked over to the other side. I crossed a bridge that spanned the Seine, but I did not pause to lean against the bridge and to look down upon the water. That belonged to another phase, even more distant, which I had almost forgotten. I came back in the evening and had a long conversation with the woman who lived on the ground floor, and from whom I had rented the rooms.

I told her we should not be living there any longer. I told her we were going away, very shortly, possibly within the week. She said she was very sorry. I said I was sorry, too. She said we had always been ‘
très gentils
’ and that we had never caused her ‘
des soucis
’.

I told her it was very nice of her to say that. She said she would always remember us. I said we should always remember, too. She asked me what were our plans, and where were we going. I said the plans were not very definite yet. It was all a little difficult, a little sudden. She told me she quite understood. Life was like that, she said. ‘
On ne sait jamais
’ . . . from day to day. It was the same for everybody. I said: ‘Yes,’ many times, and we sighed and we shrugged our shoulders.

I told her that Mademoiselle had left one or two things she did not want to take away. Would she care to have them, or her daughter perhaps? She clasped her hands and the tears came in her eyes, and she said we were too good to her, much too good. I said: ‘No, no, not at all,’ and she came upstairs with me, and I let her rummage about in the bedroom and find what she thought would be useful to her, amongst the remnants of the bare drawers and shelves. She made a little bundle. There was an old coat, I believe, and a blouse, and checked skirt, and an ugly red dress I had never liked. She said she would be able to do something with this, even if it was a little too small. She thanked me again and again with the tears in her eyes. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I said: ‘
Ça va. Ça va
. . .’ but I felt that these were not the right words. As she left the room I saw that on the top of the bundle was an orange béret, very dusty and worn.

After that I went across to the Dôme and had a drink.

In the evening I brought the divan into the sitting-room and made up a bed for myself, quite comfortable, in the corner. I did not want to use the two rooms. I had all my things in my bag, leaving the lid open, so that I could pull out anything at any time. The other room was quite empty now. It looked as if nobody had been there. I had the door shut, like it had been when I first came, and had only rented one room.

It seemed quite all right like this. I was out most of the day too, coming back in the evenings to sleep. I spent most of my time looking in the windows of the various travel bureaux, gazing at the highly-coloured posters which served as advertisements for different places in France, in Europe, in the world in general.

I remembered my old job in one of these bureaux, and my familiarity with the express routes across the Continent. I was trying to decide where I should go.There seemed to be so many places. I could not believe in them, somehow, not the truth of those posters. They appeared to be false and unlike anything in life. I could not believe in the height of those mountains, nor the depth of those forests.The seas were a little foolish, too calm, too blue. The ships were painted ships. The islands were dream islands, and the sun in Africa was a great round ball of a sun that could not possibly exist, and the natives were only ordinary men and women, who had put feathers in their hair for fun. I was not deceived by them. I was not taken in by the glittering domes of a white city, nor the waving green branches of a tree, nor the gold of scattering sand, nor the deep blue of the sea.

Once I would have wanted to explore these places, but now I did not care to; now I knew they were not so beautiful as they seemed.

People were so wise who stayed at home and read - people in arm-chairs, with their feet in a fender. They ate, and they worked, and they slept, and they died. Those were their lives, I envied them.

Still, I was not sure where I would go. Whether East or West, whether China or Peru. Probably they both looked alike. The thought of the discomfort of the journey bored me this time. I had very little money left; it would mean roughing it again. I did not fancy a steerage passage, poverty and squalor. Sailing ships were cramped and dirty. I did not care to wear myself out, working before the mast. There was no excitement in rough seas, only danger, and danger was an uncomfortable thing. I might travel across country, huddled in a train, but this would mean hanging about frontiers, questions, the monotony of language which I should not understand. Going from one town to another, not minding whether I saw them or not. Adventure had lost its glamour for me.

I realized that I would have to decide upon some course, because I had told the woman I should be leaving the room in the Rue du Cherche-Midi in three days’ time. I would have to turn out, anyway. And I had done with Paris. I went back then one evening after dinner with a map in my pocket, and I was determined to resolve upon some destination, even though it should be the South Pole. I would be a child again, and spread out the map upon the table, and close my eyes, and point blindly to an unknown spot, and, whatever it should be, that would be my place. It would be quite a little amusement in its way. I hurried my steps in the direction of Montparnasse.When I went into my room I saw that there was a wire lying on the table. I went over and took it in my hands. I could not open it at first. It seemed too much like a miracle, too much like waking from a dream. I wondered what Hesta’s words would be, and whether she would say the time of coming back. I wondered if he had left her without money, and if she now asked me to go to her. I wondered if it had hurt her to send this wire, I wondered if she was sorry for what she had done. I tore open the envelope, and took out the slip of paper.

It was not from Hesta, though. The wire was from Grey, saying that my father was dead.

 

When I came to Lessington the sun was setting behind the church tower and a little cloud hovered high in the air above the spire, caught in a shaft of light. The station-master touched his hat when he saw who I was. I shook hands with him, and he was suitably grave and solemn.

‘This is a great loss to the country, sir,’ he said, ‘and a great loss to us. People are deeply grieved in Lessington, sir.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He looked at me uncertainly, as though he had not expected me to speak.

‘You’ve been away a long time, sir, haven’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

Outside the station the Daimler car was waiting. I sat inside, formal and alone. In the old days I used to ride in front beside the chauffeur. It all seemed very long ago. We went along the main road, where I had bicycled so often as a boy. We turned in at the lodge gates and down the long avenue of trees. When I had left the chestnut blossom had been out, the soft blown petals lying upon the gravel. The flies had danced and fluttered in the air, thick under the low branches. The rooks had called to one another from the woods beyond the meadows. Now it was winter; and the trees in the avenue were bare. There was a heap of litter and ashes at the turn, where a fire had been. I could smell the bitter tang of wood smoke and leaf mould.

The season and the scents had changed, but that was all. Everything else was still the same. The car came round the bend, and there was the great sweep of the house before me, the grey stone, the tubs before the door, the white porch, and the lantern overhead. My mother’s spaniel, lazy and fat, rose upon his feet, wagging his tail as he saw the car. The curtain blew softly from the open window of the dining-room.

I went into the hall, and there was that same smell of an old ceiling, and the leather seats of chairs, weapons upon the walls, and logs burning in the great open fireplace.

I crossed the hall and stood for a moment at the other end, looking out upon the lawns that stretched down to the lily pond below. There was the same silence, the same hush upon the terrace, with the little grey statue of Mercury poised ready for flight, his hand to his lips. There were starlings searching for worms on the lawn.

Then I turned and went into the drawing-room and here were my mother and Ernest Grey, she very strange to me in her black dress, and smaller than before. I went over to her and kissed her. I wondered whether she would cry, whether she would begin to talk about my father. But she asked me if my journey had been comfortable and if I would like to have some tea.

I said ‘No’, I did not want anything, and then she looked at me and said: ‘You’ve grown, Richard, a great deal. You’ve filled out, I think.’

I said: ‘Yes, perhaps I have.’

‘There’s no doubt about it, is there?’ she said, turning to Grey.

‘No,’ said Grey. ‘No, I think you’re right.’

‘Your father always said you would be a big man,’ she said; ‘of course you were very lanky when you went away.’

We sat, the three of us, and we wondered what we should say.

‘I’m glad my wire found you,’ said Grey. ‘I was afraid you might not be there, might have gone.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I hadn’t gone.’

‘I’ve put you in the little West room, Richard,’ said my mother; ‘your room had not been used since you went, and I was afraid it might be damp. It was always rather a cold room in the winter.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but it doesn’t matter. I don’t mind where I go.’

‘You will be near Mr Grey in the West room,’ she said.

The spaniel came up to me, sniffing at my legs, and I bent down and stroked his ears.

‘Well, Micky,’ I said,‘you surely remember me? Poor old Micky, good old Micky.’

‘Micky has got very fat,’ said my mother.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Micky is fond of his food,’ said Grey. There was another pause and I went on stroking the spaniel’s ears.

‘I shall have a little rest before changing for dinner,’ said my mother; ‘it’s at half-past seven as usual. You must have a bath if you want to, Richard. The water should be hot.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

She rose from her chair, and went out of the room, the dog at her heels, panting across the polished floor. I stood up, too, and wandered to the window. It was getting dark now. ‘Your mother has borne up wonderfully well,’ said Grey. ‘I am hoping she will not break down at the funeral tomorrow. Such an ordeal for her. I am glad you came at once, Richard.’

‘How did he die?’ I said.

‘Heart, very suddenly, on Friday evening. Apparently he had complained of feeling tired at dinner. He went into his library afterwards, and your mother came in here. At ten o’clock she went in to see whether he was ready to go upstairs. She found him there, Richard, in his chair; a terrible shock for her. He was quite dead. He did not appear to have suffered at all, and he was leaning forward in his chair, his hand on his desk. I think he must have been stretching to reach his pen. It must have been very terrible for your mother, all alone.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘I came down on Saturday morning. There have been reporters, messages, wires, the usual thing. It’s a blessing you are not on the telephone, you escape the horror of that. You saw the papers, I suppose? The Prime Minister’s tribute, I was glad of that. Your mother read all the papers. I think she was proud.’

‘I wonder what will happen now,’ I said. ‘She won’t want to go on living here, will she, now that he is dead?’

‘She was talking to me about that this afternoon, Richard. She is so calm, she does not mind what she says, or how much she speaks of him. It’s as though it helps her, speaking of him. She said she will never leave here, she wants to stay on, because of him. I believe she has in her mind some idea of keeping the place as it has always been, as though he were still alive.’

‘I couldn’t do that,’ I said,‘not if I were her. I should have to go.’

‘She’s no longer young, you see, Richard, this is her home. Her roots are here, the whole meaning of her life. Even now that he is dead she will go on, with her memories, and it will be her consolation, living with them.’

‘Consolation?’ I said.

‘Yes, Richard. Memories are very beautiful things, when you are old.’ I moved away from the window.

‘I want to look into the library,’ I said. Together we left the drawing-room and crossed the stone hall to the library. I opened the door, and the room was in a half-darkness, for no one had been in to draw the curtains, and the grey evening light cast shadows on the floor.

‘Your mother wishes it to be left like this, quite untouched,’ said Grey. ‘She will dust it herself. Look on the desk. She put those flowers there this morning.’

I turned on the little lamp by the desk. ‘What was he working on, do you suppose, when he died?’ I said.

‘If he had been well enough in the spring,’ said Grey, ‘he was to have given an address at the University at Edinburgh. I believe he was already making notes for his speech. See this pencilled scrap of paper, and these words, “You young men who are before me now . . .” and then here below, underlined, “the courage to endure.” This was obviously a sentence from his speech. I believe these to be the last words he ever wrote.’ I held the piece of paper in my hands. ‘I wonder why he wrote this?’ I said.